


Alaric's Last Chance - A Deeprok Twelfth Novel

by ThePinkPanzer



Series: Deeprok Twelfth [1]
Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gritty, Imperial Guard, Other, Realistic, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-29 21:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15737949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkPanzer/pseuds/ThePinkPanzer
Summary: Colonel Alaric Attelus is a failure, a screwup. With nothing to show for almost six years of service but two campaigns that have both ended in complete failure thanks to his own ineptitude and pride, he should never be allowed to lead a regiment again. But when the Deeprok 12th needs a leader to stave off an approaching Chaos invasion, he may be the only man who can save them all.Cover art by Matheus Graft: https://i.imgur.com/cKlnXKV.jpg





	1. Headaches and Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, finally bringing this over to AOO. This novel is five years in the making in my on and off time, so the quality at the beginning will be lower than the latter. As the story improves, so does the realism aspect I strive for, as it is written post me joining the military. I think it's overall a good work though, and if you think so too, or don't, please let me know. I always love to hear from readers!
> 
> First chapter was rewritten a year or two ago, and the rest of it will probably get a rewrite sooner or later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten 2016

_Click, click, click,_ went the heels of Alaric's boots as he walked down the hallway, the sound of the thick rubber soles bouncing off the thick bulkhead's of the _Defiant Adjutant_ , one of the Empire's many naval ships. He wasn't familiar with the navy, he was a Guardsman, a ground pounder, but he had been a prisoner on the ship for a month now as it traveled through the warp and this was the first time he had been summoned since his trial, so he had grown use to the echoes that bounced around with each step. _"Innocent,"_ the Commissar had told him, obviously displeased, and it was made apparent to him why soon after. General Hettler Pyote, war hero, a man with so many medals that Alaric couldn't even count them, had personally stepped in on his behalf. All Alaric had known of the man was that he had served with his long gone father, years prior, and he assumed the man had felt pity. That just made Alaric angry, he hated pity, and he hated being locked up on the ship for so long. He wished they'd just shoot him and get him over with, he refused to go back to the penal regiments after the last incident.

The two Armsmen on duty, standing on either side of the door with their lasguns, saluted smartly as he passed. Alaric ignored them, not bothering to return their salutes. He didn't expect to even be a colonel for long. What punishment would they give him? Dropped down to a regular Guardsmen? Sent to a penal regiment? He may have been proclaimed innocent, and Alaric may have covered his ass as best as he could, but there was only so much that one could do when he was under trial for heresy. And only so much one could do when it wasn't even their first trial.

Thinking of it all had already given him a slamming headache, not helped by the awful lighting of the ship, and when he passed through the door and into the command-center, the buzzing of a flickering holomap warmed its way into his head and only worsened it. Forcing himself through the pain, he snapped to attention for the assorted officers, highest of which was General Pyote, and snapped a smart salute.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said. He wasn't sure if it was afternoon, he spent most of his time sleeping or drinking whatever he could win off gambling with his guards, but afternoon was always a safe bet.

If the general noticed his poor mood then he gave no sign, and the man casually saluted back, his fingers lightly touching his brow as he told Alaric to go to ease. A moment later, the man breached protocol and stepped forward, gripping Alaric's hand in one of his huge fists. The naval and Guard officer's he saw gathered looked bothered by the broken etiquette, probably aghast such a decorated general was shaking the hand of a suspected traitor, and that helped Alaric's mood improve.

"Colonel Attelus, it is good to see you. I assume you're prepared to leave the ship."

"Yes sir, though, I haven't been briefed on… er… why, exactly, I'm leaving the ship. I was just told to pack my things and wear my uniform."

"And did you pack your things, colonel?"

"You're looking at them, sir."

Pyote smiled at the joke, and one or two of the officer's chuckled nervously.

" _Kiss asses,"_ Alaric thought to himself, forcing a neutral expression.

"Colonel, we've decided that you're too good of an officer to release," Pyote started.

Alaric forced an eyebrow down when he realized it slowly started sliding up. He had done three major things in the Guard so far: Graduate from an academy, completely fuck up his first battle and almost lose an entire Imperial Guard regiment to his own stupidity, and then he was given command of a Penal regiment, which managed to mostly convert to chaos while he was still in charge and try to assassinate him. _Too good_ was stretching it. Any other officer would have been hanging by now.

"You're too kind, sir," Alaric answered, trying not to betray his feelings. He could see the looks of disgust on most of the assorted officials. And was that a bit of pity? For what?

"We are currently orbiting the planet of Deeprok. It was colonized a few hundred years ago, and it's been a shipping hub ever since. Most operations are kept small here for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being it's a rather barren desert world, but most of the warp-lanes pass through here. It's the centerpiece of Imperial control in the area."

Pyote stepped aside as he spoke, letting Alaric approach the holomap which displayed everything Pyote told him. First a view of the planet rotating slowly, with its three moons, then a map of the world itself. He wondered what was wrong with the projection until it clicked in his head, the planet didn't have an ocean. It was quite literally almost all desert.

"It's… all desert?" he asked, curious how it was ever suitable for life.

"There's some jungle around the equator where the natives had emerged from. They've since been assimilated back into Imperial society."

"Natives…?"

A short naval officer piped up at that one, the General nodding to him as he spoke.

"Deeprok had a lost population of Humans for thousands of years. They refer to themselves as the Da'jin Halashen. Though most people call them the Nomads. They are now functioning members of society, and their beliefs have been brought back into the Imperial fold."

Alaric didn't really care. At all. About any Dijin Halashing or desert worlds, but he simply nodded along as if he was doing his best to memorize it all.

"The planet has produced ten Imperial Guard regiments so far-" Pyote started again, "-Most of them are light infantry regiments. The planet is marked by massive formations of cliffs and mountains, highly vertical terrain. The Nomads are excellent hunters, and their skills have worn off on the colonists… Urbaners, as they call them. Deeprok has some very fine marksmen and they're quite adept in adverse terrain."

"Sounds like a rough sort."

"It's a rough planet. Even after we civilized it, they've had a series of race wars between the Nomads and Urbaners. Things have only started settling down in the last decade or two." The General harrumphed as a picture of screaming crowds and burning cars filled the holomap briefly. "Waste of potential, it's about time they got themselves together…"

The General sighed and looked back at Alaric. "The planet has several PDF regiments, a home militia that trains citizens, mostly Nomads, in proper military tactics and lasgun use and a rather large constabulary. They need most of this to fight off the local fauna, and the harsh terrain keeps the population concentrated in a few cities. We keep recruitment light here due to the population difficulty, but we've just raised two regiments for the needs of the campaign. The Deeprok 11th and 12th."

"The needs of the campaign? Aren't we winning, sir?"

"I'll get to that, Attelus," the General said with a sigh, shaking his head sadly. His face hardened suddenly and he stared at Alaric for an uncomfortably long moment, as if judging him.

"Attelus," he started, "The Deeprok 12th needs a leader. There's been some… issues on the planet, mostly with the relations between the social groups, and most of our candidates for the position are incompetent or suspect in some hate crime or another. They have a strong corps of field officers but nobody with the no-how to run a regiment, it's simply been too long since Deeprok has raised a regiment."

"And… I'm getting the 12th?"

"That is correct. While the 11th will go to a local leader, Colonel Fazar Naveed, you'll be given the 12th… It's highly unorthodox, a colonel being from a foreign planet. Hell, it's even rarer that a colonel will have led _three different_ regiments from foreign planes in his lifetime, but this is an odd universe. Terra, you're the only one I've been able to find besides a Colonel-Commissar!"

"Sir… leading another regiment…"

"I know, Attelus," the General said, and looking at him, Alaric realized that the General knew full-well the extent of his failures. His actions may have been motivated by some pity, but it wouldn't have been done unless absolutely necessary. Which begged the question…

"Sir, why is me leading the 12th so urgent? Surely it'd be more orthodox to find a less… seasoned… commander, for the regiment."

The General nodded slowly and snapped his fingers, and one of the officer's clicked a button on the holomap. Suddenly, it zoomed out and played a recording, the time showing six hours prior.

Alaric stepped closer to the table and watched. It showed the entire system, several lines going out to show the most stable warp-lanes that the Imperials had been using, and just as he had been told, the majority seemed to run through the Deeprok system.

And then there was a flicker, and a series of red dots suddenly appeared on one of the lanes, moving rapidly towards Deeprok. The blood immediately drained from his face as he realized the implications of what he was seeing.

"Judging by the colonel's face, it seems he has put two and two together," Pyote said, shaking his head slowly. "The Arch Enemy did it, colonel. They ambushed Battlefleet Aska, and managed to wipe it out in a single engagement. The _Imperial Magnificence_ and _Triumphant_ are the only ships to have escaped. Aska was our second largest fleet in the area, next to the crusading battlefleet, and was the only one in a position to guard Deeprok."

Alaric's jaw dropped, the colonel taking a sharp breath through his mouth as he tried to process what he was being told. Any force capable of doing _that_ was going to wipe out the planet without even stopping. The General took a glass of water from the edge of the map and raised it to his lips, sipping slowly, the scars across his face stretching as he did so. Alaric just stared at the red dots.

"It wasn't the crusading fleet," said the officer from before, "Which means the crusade still continues, thank the Emperor. We can recover from this, but they're on a direct path to invade Deeprok. On the bright side, the fleet split up to attack several planets in the area at once, you'll only be fighting a few thousand men… at most, five hundred thousand. At most."

Alaric mouthed the words slowly. _"Five hundred thousand,"_ he whispered to himself, _"Five hundred thousand."_

Pyote recognized the look on his face and stepped back in immediately, glaring at the officer as he did so.

"I apologize, Lieutenant Valos tends to overestimate our enemy. It's doubtful they'll feel the need to spare that many men for Deeprok."

One of the other men piped up next, some tall Guard officer with a mustache that reminded Alaric of smeared shit.

"Oh I am sure the colonel will be fine. A quick look at his record shows he has plenty of experience with the forces of heresy, one way or-"

"Colonel Aberfree! I suggest you close your mouth and stop instigating Colonel Attelus or I will have you leading this damn regiment."

There was silence after that, and Aberfree pretended to look admonished. For Alaric, however, that just made everything click. _This,_ was his punishment. They only had a few thousand men against a legion. He was sentenced to die by last stand. One last hurrah attempting to save a worthless ball of sand before he was torn apart by heretics. He was being given this command as a way to be rid of.

They didn't expect him to survive.

Part of Alaric took the challenge. The _old_ Alaric, the one that had ordered a charge onto an Ork position because he saw it in one of the old Ciaphais Cain vids. That part of Alaric wanted to fight and fight until he died, for glory and for his own honor, to show them all he could, and to save this planet and her people like he knew was right.

And then the real Alaric, the one who had seen far too much to believe those vids were real, the one who had lost too much to think any of it was worth it. He was resigned. They should have truly just shot him; this was just a prolonged sentence. He mind as well just let it happen.

That part of Alaric won out as the General droned on with his briefing. He felt the defeat already. It would be his final one.

But then he still had the niggle in the back of his mind. Maybe it was just his headache, but a voice told him, _"Fog them all!"_ It shouted and screamed in his head. It demanded he fight until he lived or died. It didn't do it for glory, or because of a damn vid, or to spite them, it did it because Allaric refused to let himself go calmly into the void to disappear. He would go in screaming; he would be dragged out kicking. He would kill as many heretics as he could when he died, just so he knew that he tried.

His mind was still raging when he heard the General ask if he had any questions. He blinked suddenly, glancing around the room, only just realizing he was still in the middle of a briefing. One part of his mind told him to ask to leave, the other told him to ask when he could go. He forced himself to calm.

"Sir, I'll have 3,000 men between me and the 11th. That won't hold off that many heretics."

"It will be… harrowing… but these heretics aren't…" the General paused and shuddered as he spoke, "These aren't the corrupted Astarte." The men in the room made a variety of prayers and gestures, Alaric himself forcing himself not to remember the first and hopefully last time he had seen them. When they had slaughtered half his penal regiment and converted the rest to their twisted beliefs.

"So what are they?"

"Regular fanatics, by our estimation. They'll try and swarm you with numbers and inferior weaponry, but you should have superiority in equipment, discipline and position."

"Should, sir?"

"Judging by the standard for heretics in the area, yes. It may be untrue, of course, but we have little reason to believe they'll bring in anything special for Deeprok, and we know for a fact the ships don't transport the… fallen Space Marines."

"Even then, we can't spread two regiments across the entire planet. Even with PDF support. Not against those numbers."

Lieutenant Valos nodded and stepped in again.

"We were ordered to evacuate the planet immediately, and were given around six days to do so. You'll have the honor of leading the main evacuation force here, in assistance with the PDF."

"A million people in less than a week? It'll take that long to evacuate just the capital, in the best circumstances."

The General's face darkened suddenly and he could feel the sudden, crushing sadness that filled the room. He had a feeling this had been argued again and again, and each time they had come to the same conclusion.

"It won't be a complete evacuation, Colonel." They stared at each other for a moment before the General continued. "The Guardsmen will not gather people from the countryside, and we will only be evacuating from a few key points. Anyone who isn't on a ship on day six will be left behind, whether they're in their homes or on the landing pad. We don't have enough ships to risk an engagement, and you'll need to stay on the ground and try to hold until reinforcements can arrive."

"Leave… leave all those people? To the heretics? To die?"

The General was clearly troubled, as was everybody else in the room. Even Captain Aberfree seemed intent on staring at the shine on his boots. After a moment, the General nodded to himself.

"The Emperor protects."

Without hesitating, every man in the room repeated the words. Even Alaric, who could only barely mumble them.

"The Emperor protects.

* * *

Alaric stared at those who sat across from him in the tight confines of the shuttle. Some he had known since his first campaigns, some were new.

Around him were Imperial Guardsmen from the General's guard, there to escort him to the ground and then assist in the evacuation effort. They wouldn't be following him to the 12th.

Who would be following him was the other three. Dormont, Tauron, Kali. His standard bearer, his Commissar, and his Vox Operator, respectively.

Dormont was… a special case. The man was legitimately insane by Alaric's standards, and had been his standard bearer in the Horones 96th. The penal regiment he had led. The man was unhinged to a T, mumbling to himself one moment, laughing at some unseen joke the next, but his commitment to the Emperor was unflinching. He was almost covered in tattoos to the Emperor's glory, and he was one of the few who refused the temptations of heresy during the Battle of Horones.

That isn't to say he belonged there. Alaric had no legitimate idea how he had gotten into the 12th. Just like he didn't know where he was from either. To that end, his file claimed it was from some backwater station called Elcador, Dormont claimed to be from a manufactorum named Rhinefort, and Tauron claimed he had reason to believe the man was born on Holy Terra itself. Alaric was starting to believe it was part of one big joke against him.

Then there was Tauron. His Commissar.

Alaric hated Tauron.

Normally he'd admit it was just the uniform and claim he was probably an alright man, if uptight and a prick like most Commissars, but he legitimately despite Tauron. The man was assigned to him on Horones and had personally executed several dozen heretics in the span of a few hours during the battle. Even before they had started really converting. He found the man's methods disturbing and wasteful, and the man found Alaric to be weak and his leniency to be bordering on heresy. They both hated one another, and Alaric had the creeping suspicion the man had been sent to spy on _him_ , specifically.

And then there was Kali. A veritable light shining in the darkness of what was his awful, awful life. She had been with him on Calarran, with the 4th Calarran, his first regiment. She kept her blonde hair in a tight bun and was cute as a button, and he had started to see her almost as a little sister. Maybe that was because she was also one of the only survivors from the disaster he had brought on that planet, and he had personally requested she follow him to Horones and his new regiment, which she volunteered to do. Both of them had become friends on Calarran, and had remained so since. She was a natural pick for his command staff.

"Lisal's bored," Dormont said with a disturbing, gap-toothed smile. The man rubbed his hands up and down the flagpole he had always carried. _Lisal,_ as he called 'her'. The things he had done with that pole were unspeakable, Alaric having personally witnessed the man charging heretic machine gun nests and diving in, killing multiple men by using it like a spear. The man had cheered the entire time he had done so, and Alaric guessed it was the cleanest thing he did with the damned flag. Alaric would have suspected the man of the taint if he didn't have so many tattoos and Imperial paraphernalia that he'd make most priest's blush.

" _Uh, Colonel, sir, there's a… uh… problem…"_ came a crackle over the ship's loudspeaker from the cockpit, the pilot's nervous voice breaking over the sounds of the engine. Alaric clicked a button and spoke, some annoyance dropping into his voice. Why was there always a problem?

"What is it?" he demanded, leaning into the seat.

" _I uh- sir, the landing zone is, er… obstructed. There's people swarming the parade field. I'm moving us to a, uh, secondary landing site… Terra, there's civilians everywhere."_

Dormont's nasally little rat voice came over the vox next.

" _Why don't we just land? I'm sure this thing won't be stopped by some cushions. Sure as sure."_

Every man and woman in the bay slowly looked over and stared at the man. Tauron opening his mouth to say something as Dormont snickered. Before anyone could speak on it, however, the pilot announced they were landing, the vehicle suddenly shaking as it lowered itself to the landing pad. A small plaza off the main boulevard he remembered from his briefing.

Slowly, he stood, and groaned to himself as his legs ached from the ride. After a quick stretch, he slowly turned around to face the doors, the Guardsmen forming two rows to trot out when they opened. He puffed out his chest, thought of he wanted to look like, and was out into Deeprok almost as soon as the doors slid open for them.

And by the Emperor, there were a lot of people.


	2. Welcome to Deeprok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten 2018

The first thing Alaric noticed when he marched down the ramp was the heat. A wave of pure, hot air blasted him as if he was stepping into the pits of hell as the planet’s sun began a ruthless assault on his body.

He did his best to ignore the horrifying temperature, instead readjusting his cap and trying not to stare at the huddled masses of civilians that had filled the plaza. They were silent before him, staring in wonder as he and his staff came marching out. Alaric could only under why in the warp they were there; the evacuation was supposed to still be secret entirely to avoid messes like this, at least until the PDF and Guard mobilized. Someone had fogged up, and he could only hope unintentionally.

This was for minds above him in the chain of command, however, and instead he focused on how best to walk down the ramp.

It was a more difficult decision than it might sound on first consideration. The people here were staring, and he was sure he was being filmed for whatever equivalent of a news voxcast existed. Even if he wasn’t, people talked, and half the planet would have a first impression of him within a day.

So he puffed out his chest, took a breath, and marched down with perfect parade efficiency with hands folded crisply behind his back. He despised the ridiculous roles the Militarum had tried to force him into, that of the hero or the theologian or whatever else they deemed necessary for him to be. The people around him, however, weren’t like him. They wanted heroes to come save them, desired it, _demanded_ it. It was the entire basis of which their Imperium sat upon, the hallowed tales of those who came before and held the entire thing together.

If they saw a hero march down a ramp, the perfect mix of brevity, bravery and uptight aristocratic snootiness, then they would act like good little Imperial citizens.

So as he took his first steps down the ramp towards Deeprok soil, he channeled the images of Ciaphais Cain, of Ursakar Creed, of Ollanius Pius, and every other Hero of the Imperium that the propaganda films (which were, coincidentally, the only ones) had always told him were to be his role models. Men who bedded women but only let the Emperor into their heart, who slaughtered millions of heretics and xeno scum and who ignored the massive amounts of collateral damage they caused.

He had never met these people, or any _hero_ in his few years of service with the Guard, but he knew that none of the local yokels would know any better.

With his chest out and a disdainful glance at the unwashed hordes, he thought he made himself out as enough of a pompous ass to convince the lot as they remained in silence, a lane slowly opening to allow him to walk unimpeded.

From what he could see, he had interrupted a bit of a scuffle, PDF troopers and civilians still locked up against one another where the PDF had been desperately trying to clear the plaza alongside a group of even more haggard looking members of the constabulary.

As he approached the bottom of the ramp, some old PDF sergeant with a face like badly dried leather seemed to find his spine and began barking out orders at his men, violating the blissful silence that had engulfed the plaza. The PDF troopers and constables seemed to find themselves after a depressingly long period of undisciplined confusion and quickly formed two lines on either side of the ramp, shoring up the lane that had already formed for him towards the road.

He stopped at the bottom, glancing dismissively to his side where the PDF Sergeant stood. Behind the man, the people looked at him with awe-struck faces, well lit by the sun. A quick glance back which he disguised as a respectful nod to Tauron (not that he would ever do so seriously) proved his suspicions correct.

Most of the masses of beleaguered sand farmers would have never seen an off worlder before, such things being left up to their nobility and the planet’s more well off businessmen, especially not one in a beautiful uniform in a massive Imperial dropship. This would have been enough to amaze the lot, but combined with his unexpected appearance, and the fact they had managed to land in front of the setting sun, had made Alaric almost look like a living Saint coming down to grace the idiots from the heavens.

Alaric shook the dumbstruck Sergeant’s hand, and, after a quick internal debate between an award winning smile or a grim and a militaristic shake of the head, decided on the latter.

The Sergeant found his footing and shook back vigorously before Alaric released the grip, idly wiping his hand off on his coat.

“Sir!” the man finally managed to cough out, “Sergeant Galagan, Deeprok 5th PDF Light Infantry! We didn’t expect you here, sir!”

Alaric was a bit amused at this. The Sergeant was hardened from forty to fifty years of life in the desert cliffs of Deeprok. This made him quite Alaric’s senior, and no doubt the man had a few children around Alaric’s age already. Despite this, he looked at Alaric with a disturbing mix of near religious reverence and the face of a child looking to his father for guidance.

Despite his cynical view of things, he couldn’t help the feeling of a power high creeping onto him, and decided to let it ride out for the good of his act.

He looked the man dead in the eyes and gave him a look that said, ‘I’ve been here a thousand times before, let me handle this,’ and with that, began strutting forward down the line, towards a set of archways cutting through the buildings that surrounded the plaza and archways set within that led to the street beyond.

Alaric began dictating with the most steeled voice he could manage. “Sergeant, I want your commanding officer’s commanding officer’s commanding officer on the line ASAP, and I mean ASAP and I want them to tell me why there are so many civilians running around panicking in...” he paused for a minute, almost about to say ‘my city’, and decided on a more diplomatic term, “ _Our_ damned city.”

Alaric paused as the Sergeant hurried after him, yelling at one of his bewildered PDF troopers to find some lieutenant Alaric didn’t bother to remember the name of.

“...thank you Sergeant Calaghan,” he started again, “Now, when you get him on the line also make sure you have him lock down this entire city. I want all major population centers swept for refugees, and sniper overwatch on these landing sights in case of further riots. Also pop open whatever old armories you have if you have yet to do so and begin gathering up whatever mines and other weapons you can gather. I take it the PDF can handle that?”

“Erm, it’s Gal- yes sir, we can.”

Alaric somehow doubted it but he continued on without comment.

“It’s not safe to have these refugees milling about like this. Your PDF lads are already stretched thin, and it seems the constabulary are even worse off, so I’m going to let the real troopers assist you.” Alaric paused and stopped as he stepped into the shade of the archway, motioning for Tauron to approach and holding up a hand to stop the Sergeant from butting in.

Tauron glared down at him from precipitous heights, his rock like visage looming over him in the dark hallway, the entrance to the city proper bathed in light not far from them.

“What is it?” he demanded with his characteristic growl.

Alaric leaned in to whisper. “This is a fogging mess already damn it, how the warp do these people know about the evacuation?”

Tauron seemed to find some amusement out of this, though Alaric knew the man would never do something as Human as smile, and shot back quickly.

“Aren’t you the one who seems to know everything? We had the same briefing, Attelus.”

Alaric’s glare deepened, along with his distaste for the man, and he shot a look over at the Sergeant to make sure he wouldn’t be heard before leaning in further.

“Don’t fogging play with me, Commissar, I know you know more than you let on.”

“The only one who should not _play_ , Attelus, is the only man within a hundred systems to be pardoned from a trial on heresy _after_ the presiding members of the Commissariat judged him worthy of execution. I suggest you best watch your step.”

That one gave him pause.

“They did _what?_ ”

“I suggest you continue walking, Colonel, your men are no doubt waiting.”

Alaric stared at him as the man straightened back up, one hand hooking into his belt and the other resting on the grip of his laspistol. He could only pray that one of his Guardsmen would be brave enough to frag him so he might get a replacement he despised slightly less, though he’d never met a Commissar who he didn’t detest.

He looked back at the Sergeant, who was whispering orders with plenty of angry hand motions to a pale faced PDF trooper who couldn’t have been older than fifteen, motioning at the crowd they had left behind that had gone back to shouting and screaming at the PDF as their dropship left the surface. Back to the chaos.

When the man looked up, Alaric motioned for him to begin walking again and resumed his march out.

“Sir I got with my lieutenant and he said he would contact-”

“Yes, yes, be sure to tell my XO. Whoever that is.”

“Sir, the briefing said that’d be Major Naveed, sir,” Kali said from behind him, and he shot her a glare before looking forward again.

“Yes, be sure to inform Major Naveed of whatever that is. Regardless, even when I have my men begin assisting you, most of them will be deployed securing this cities entrances and whatever other defenses we can manage. Those that help keep order will simply be supplementing your lads, so you will be taking the brunt of the evacuation still.

“I understand this city… Highka...” he stumbled along as he tried to remember his briefing “...Highkan, is the largest one on Deeprok?”

Alaric and his retinue passed into the street, Alaric raising a hand as the light blinded him anew. He glanced around, tropical trees were planted all along the opposite side of the road, a variety of businesses with gaudy signs in Low Gothic and some native language he’d most likely be forced to learn if he survived this mess.

The street was choked with civilians, those few stores that hadn’t closed their doors selling out their stock in bulk to the fleeing crowds of people en-route to whatever destination center they could find. A line of PDF troopers ensured no more entered the plaza, and he could see more on both ends of the street blocking off vehicle traffic.

His view went up, following the city that slowly drifted uphill, almost reminiscent of the Hive Worlds he had seen elsewhere though far less grand. The square sandstone buildings were broken up by the occasional church, as ornate as any he’d seen in the Imperium. All were dwarfed by the large hill, really a small mountain, in the far northwest of the city. On top, a wall surrounded a massive building he could only imagine was the seat of whatever government led Deeprok. That mountain itself was dwarfed by those around it, massive cliffs nearly jutting straight up, a wall around which the city grew in the shadow of.

“Yes sir,” Calaghan answered after one of the trooper’s outside gave him a hushed report, all of the people in the street stealing glances or staring at Alaric and his retinue. “Highkam… kam, is the largest city by far. The second would be the mining capital, Slaep-”

“Yes, great, this will be our stand for when the invasion force arrives so we’ll at least get most of the urban population out. I’d rather build up in a less densely populated area, but no doubt your world doesn’t have much to supply us in the way of cities, so we’ll have to do with what we have… hopefully this stone will hold up.”

As he finished, he tapped a knuckle against one of the traffic barriers outside of the archway.

He frowned at how hollow it sounded, not dense at all. That meant that when the bombardment inevitably began, assuming they weren’t just starved out first and they all perished after Alaric was forced to eat Dormont to survive, that the city wouldn’t withstand very long. Defensive positions would collapse, troops and refugees would be buried, and any defenses they planned would be plunged into utter chaos.

Still, it would mean a lot of rather large barriers, and if the enemy just carpet bombed the city and paved over the whole lot it’d mean they’d have no high ground to take. Really, it meant they would be killed by being crushed by rubble or being blasted to bits instead of just starving to death while crying to the Emperor. A mercy really.

Alaric was suddenly and inexplicably sad.

Regardless, he nodded and turned to the Sergeant, demanding to know where his ride was.

Calaghan was still stuttering out excuses about how Alaric wasn’t supposed to land three kilometers from his landing zone when he heard shouting from the refugees down the road.

The people quickly forgot about him and began scattering as a convoy of PDF vehicles, led by an Imperial Guard Leman Russ, came rolling down the street. Cobblestones cracked under the weight of true Imperial machinery, but thankfully the citizenry had the foresight to run instead of be crushed under the treads. He could hardly imagine what people would think if his entrance to the city led to the death’s of dozens.

The tank’s commander popped his head out of the hatch and, spotting Alaric’s stoic figure, or more likely Dormont’s waving regimental standard, waved the convoy to a halt.

“Colonel Attelus, I presume!” the man shouted cheerfully as the Leman Russ stopped, rocking on its treads in front of him as Alaric tried his best not to choke on the blast of sand it propelled outward.

Alaric was sweating himself half to death but the man he looked at was managing to wear a greasy rag around his head under a tanker’s cap in full uniform, riding around in an uncooled tin can all day without so much as a bead of sweat. If the man had been blessed by the Emperor in such a way, Alaric imagined he had reason to be so chipper.

“You presume correct, Guardsman!” he shouted up over the noise of a dozen engines and the crowd which was quickly being forced out of the street by the PDF. “Are you with my regiment!?”

The tanker leaned down, holding onto the hatch with his off hand as he dangled precariously over the edge to slap the large number 11 on the side.

“Captain Harald La Valaian, Deeprok 11th Mechanized Infantry’s 1st Armored Company! Colonel Naveed instructed me to give you a ride to your CP, sir.” The man grunted as he slid back into his spot and motioned for Alaric to climb aboard.

He should have known better than asking. The 12 th  was a Light Infantry company, so of course it wouldn’t have been his. The 11  th  was mechanized, and would have the tanks to escort its lighter vehicles on the battlefield.

After motioning for his crew to go join the convoy, he gripped a steaming hot rung and carried himself up the small ladder on the side of the vehicle, trying not to wince from the blistering pain in his hands.

He could hear Tauron grumbling something about deserving a vehicle more befitting his rank but when Alaric looked back the brute had found a nice Tauros in the convoy to ride in.

With some grunting and cursing under his breath, Alaric reached the top of the tank and slid through the hatch, the Captain sliding down to allow him some space as he stood out and observed the street from above.

Once the rest were in their vehicles, he slapped the side of the vehicle and the tank soon took off, the tank’s vox-operator sending the message ahead of Alaric’s arrival as the Captain looked into his periscope and began listing off some meaningless numbers to the driver.

After finishing his, presumably, orders, he glanced back up at Alaric. “You landed pretty far off, sir, straight into the 11th’s deployment zone actually. Your lot are on the 33 rd  of St. Katherine, 12  th  should all be there waiting for you.”

Alaric nodded and straightened his back, his head held high as he passed the bands of civilians standing and staring as if he was on parade. He nodded at some of them, trying his best to keep us his image before he quickly glanced down and spoke to the Captain.

“They’re still waiting for me? Has my XO not been commanding them?”

The man thought and then shrugged, before shouting back up, “Probably not, sir! Major Naveed is in charge but, off the record sir, even when we were running simulations he had no idea what was going on. Not exactly great at his job, no sir. No offense to the esteemed major, of course, much better man than I’ll ever be! No doubt! Of course,” the man said.

Alaric looked back down, eyeing the bored looking man, the tanker speaking as if that level of sarcasm wouldn’t get him a lashing in some regiments. He decided he liked him. Such a level of apathy was quite agreeable.

“Very well, let’s see how Naveed is running my regiment, then.”

* * *

 

Guardsman Grendel Zech sat on top of a dust covered crate they had dug out of an ancient military warehouse out in the waste and then carted back into the city. The crate, along with a dozen others, sat on the 33rd of St. Katherine, one of the largest avenues near the governor’s estate. Around the crates, a myriad of tired Guardsmen lounged, the men having just unloaded the crates from the trucks and having been left to wait for the rare to come orders that Naveed would no doubt take his time delivering.

He looked up at the manor, only a road or two away, where it loomed intimidatingly over the city.

Grendel had never cared much about the governor who ruled from there, he thought as he stared up at it in silent contemplation. He supposed he had to be thankful he was even allowed to vote, the one or two traders from planets afar he had met in 31 years of life having spoken of the autocracy most planets chaffed under. It all sounded quite grim and dark, though Zech imagined those people didn’t have to brood about having voted for the wrong guy.

“Grendel, hup-two!” Sergeant Arash shouted as he jogged past, using Zech’s first name to his great displeasure.

As he slid off the crate and slung his long-las behind his back, he nodded at Zartosht and Olivares (the sole woman in the regiment) and started walking behind their sergeant. They were four of the regiment’s dozen or so sharpshooters, who, like the rest of their comrades, were excited to finally be allowed to shoot more than rocks in the desert or stun rounds at the 11th.

Zech was a bit less enthused than the others. He wasn’t as ecstatic about the idea of his home city being bombarded and possibly occupied by a group of whatever insane dark creatures the warp held for them. Of course, the idea of knocking a bit off the top of their shoulders from a thousand meters cooled him down a bit, so he wasn’t too worked up.

He waved and nodded to some choice friends in the company as he passed but didn’t respond to questions or hellos. The men didn’t complain, they knew Zech was a quiet man, who kept to himself even if they were all his friends. There weren’t many in the regiment he talked to regularly, and only one had ever heard him talk in any real detail about himself.

Olivares jogged a bit to walk alongside him and flashed him a cool smile, nonchalant as always.

“Remember the last time we were here together, Grendel?” she asked. It was alright when she said his name, at least.

“A month ago, maybe...”

“Aaah, it was so romantic. I wish the Festival of Saint’s could happen every month. Do you remember when you almost killed that guy in the Saint Brannicus costume?” she giggled a bit at that, and he looked at the bar outside of which he had almost done so. It was an impromptu barracks now, a series of PDF vehicles parked alongside of it and some Guardsmen arguing over a crate which they couldn’t fit through the door.

Most of the buildings were like that now. Offices, apartments, librarys. They were now command posts, armories, motor pools and every other structure the Guard happened to need at that moment. It was a curious feeling, seeing the whole thing being transformed, windows smashed and replaced with metal sheets, barricades rising in the streets.

They skirted around a group of Guardsmen dragging a family out of what was once their home, shouting at them where to go to join the evacuation despite the father’s protests about being ejected from the home he had raised his children in. Their daughter screamed and cried as Zech tried his best to ignore her wails.

“He shouldn’t have tried to hit me with his leg...” he said to himself, recalling the drunken man hopping around with the toy.

“If I’m remembering right,” she said, her smile showing her dimples, “You only threatened to shove it down his throat off after he hit _me_ with it.”

He tried his best not to smile and failed, his happiness at the memory feeling at odds with his surroundings.

“You know,” he said, his expression fading back into its normal rigid structure. “I was only born around two blocks from here.”

“Nothing like coming home, right?”

“You know what I mean, Jaymie. It’s like this whole city is turning into some… military… caricature of what it was. War sounds fun until it’s on your doorstep.”

They stopped near the command post where Arash ducked in, an old cafe him and Jaymie used to frequent when they were in the PDF. She spun around and faced him, grabbing his hands.

“Oh come on Zech, it’ll be alright. We still have each other, right? And everyone else too. No matter where we go, we’ll bring home with us.”

“That’s positively cheesy,” he answered, and was rewarded by her winning laugh.

She went up on tip toes to kiss him, despite whatever obscure regulation in the Deeprok Guard’s regulations forbidding it, and he found himself responding in kind.

“Get a damn room you two,” Guardsman Zartosht said as he walked past, shooting a glare at them, Aaslo laughing alongside his companion.

Zech blushed and broke off, coughing into his fist, but Olivares just laughed again and gave a rather rude gesture to the passing snipers.

“Come on, guys,” Zartosht said nervously as he pushed his hands into both of their backs, to Zech’s great displeasure, “Sergeant won’t be happy if we keep him waiting.”

They entered the regimental CP soon after, Zech trying not to look at the space him and Olivares would normally drink at or the tables they sat at that had been shoved roughly to the sides of the room. Next to the window, sitting on one of the few tables that hadn’t been abused to make room for the Guard’s variety of equipment was the muscular form of Lieutenant Suero, who led the 1st Company’s 1st Platoon, the best of the 12th. Sergeant Arash leaned on the window next to him, the Guardsmen not having quite gotten around to smashing them and replacing them with whatever barricade they could think of.

“Naveed’s about to be relieved,” the Lieutenant said casually, tapping away at a data-slate that looked several times smaller in the man’s massive hands. Zech tried his best to hear the man through his deep Nomad accent. He’d always found the other half of Deeprok’s population eccentric at best, the tanned skinned desert folk’s accent being even worse, but being in the Guard had exposed him to the dialect enough that he was starting to understand most of the words they said.

“About damn time,” Arash said, quietly so Guardsmen outside their little group couldn’t hear. Another Nomad, though at least the Sergeant had grown up in the cities like the Urbaners and had a semblance of culture, like Zech and Olivares.

“Let’s be easy on him,” Suero said, with a wave of his free hand, “He might be a good Guard officer, just not a good Deeprok Guard officer.”

Zech had read some of the primers that guided other regiments in the Imperium at the library when he was younger. Some relied on mass human waves to simply overwhelm their enemies, but Deeprok was different. They didn’t have the manpower for such tactics, and they didn’t have the vast mineral wealth that would allow them to pump out wave after wave of armored firepower either. So they had good training and stratagem, two things Naveed seemed not to have caught on despite years in the PDF.

“Three month’s of training, twelve practice fights with the 11th, twelve losses. The man shouldn’t have been allowed in a command position in the first place, the damn desk jockey.” Arash spat as he finished the sentence, shaking his head in disgust.

“Watch your tone, Sergeant. We’re friends and you know I have my problems with him, but he’s still an officer,” Suero said, his voice still even, the man not even looking up from the data-slate.

“Aye sir…” Arash answered, a tad bitterly.

After a moment of awkward silence, Zartosht managed to speak up.

“Erm, sir… Lieutenant, sir. Do we know anything about the uh… new guy?”

Suero readjusted the scarf around his neck, the brown-orange color matching their fatigues. They were standard issue to the men of Deeprok, along with the goggles and the rest of their gear, but the Nomad’s scarves were much more finely designed. An old holdover from thousands of years of ‘culture’ before the Imperium had found them.

“The new guy?” Suero asked, exchanging the data-slate for another with a passing Lieutenant Brog of the 2nd Platoon.

The lieutenant thought for a moment before he pointed at a screen propped up against the wall to one side of the room. It was playing news footage of a Valkyrie landing in one of the plaza’s in the south of the city, crowds of civilian watching up in awe as the sun was silhouetted by the vehicle and a tall, blonde and smartly dressed man marched out as if he was the governor of the entire damn planet.

They watched the rest of his retinue come out after him, a weaselly man with the banner, a woman with a vox-pack as large as she was, and a Commissar that looked more bull than man marching out after them.

Zech sighed in resignation as Sergeant Arash spat again.

“Great, foreigners. Just what we needed,” Arash said with distaste.

“He looks like the type that’ll drink Avia in a bunker while we all die in the hundreds,” Zech muttered, and Olivares jabbed his ribs sharply.

“I suggest you both save your opinions, we have a Commissar now,” Suero said, sliding off the table.

“Well… do we know what he’s actually like, sir?” Zech asked despite the fully built character profile in his head.

Suero shrugged and looked out the window where a column of PDF vehicles were filling in the road.

"Why don't we go and see ourselves?" he mumbled as the man rode in like the Emperor himself on one of the 11th’s tanks.

Zech could only have one thought.

“ _We’re doomed.”_


End file.
